Silver
by M. Gardner
Summary: (Prequel to the film) Jerome Morrow, a young cocky swim star competing in a world famous swim competition, falls in love with an INVALID girl.
1. Chapter One: Million Dollar Morrow

Chapter One:

Million Dollar Morrow

Perhaps all this work would pay off. All these years, he had been swimming in pools; Lukewarm, placid, holes in the ground, where the only waves were produced by your own legs. Besides, he had conquered that, long ago. There wasn't a stroke he couldn't swim. He decimated the records of Spitz, Thorpe, Phelps, the best of the past. It was said that perhaps he shouldn't compete in the Games, that he had an unfair advantage. "Of course I do," he said during a famous interview, after his 400-meter freestyle victory at the Los Angeles Olympics, "the nickname isn't just a catchy phrase."

_But the one thing I haven't tried is the English Channel Cup._

"Jerome, you're not giving me a whole lot of time. I have to train you for a whole different type of swimming in. . .two and a half months!"

_I can do it. I can do anything without breaking a sweat. With that gold medal, with all those endorsements, even the Olympics were overshadowed now by the English Channel Cup. The best swimmers from all around the world do this, and I practically walked on. I am the best swimmer in the world. I'm a hero. A damn hero._

_Well, at least here I am. But after this, the entire world will know of me. Overseas they only care about their baseball stars. Only the swimming community knows of me. That won't be so for very long._

Suddenly, the gruff Scottish voice of his coach, John McHallan, rang in his ears. "Dammit, Jerome! Are you even listening? Is this naptime? HOW many times have I tried to get your attention in the last two hours!"

"Well, I don't know why you find it necessary to drone on for two hours. This is practice, not a university lecture," Jerome said, and ruffled his now-dried brown hair around.

"And how would you know?" Coach McHallan scoffed. "You didn't go to university. You've been stuck with me."

His blue eyes flashed, "I didn't have to. I'm smart enough. I passed the tests."

Coach McHallan sighed and scratched his belly, "Cut the crap, Morrow. This is important. Now, the current is. . ." and he continued to drone. Jerome continued not to listen.

It was springtime in his native London, and a very rainy one at that. Jerome Eugene Morrow peered out the large window cut into the brick wall of the pool complex. He thought of the trees outside, drenched with water, lining the street filled with the shrill zip of electric cars. Perhaps all the British Isles were like London was now, enveloped by a thick blanket of fog. _Perhaps after this I'll go get a scone and coffee and run by the telly shop. . ._

"Jerome!" McHallan bellowed.

Jerome looked up with that usual frown of his. He didn't have to listen. He was Jerome Morrow, genetically engineered by the best scientists and geneticists in the entire world. At the time, he was said to be the most perfect human specimen to date. "Yeah?" he sneered.

"Don't 'yeeahhh' me, Jerome. Listen, will ye'?"

He lamely replied, "Sure."

"This is important, much more so than staring out the window. You're like a five-year old with attention-deficit-disorder. I get paid to coach and help you swim better, to keep you motivated, not to babysit," McHallan whined.

"What's that?" Jerome asked.

"What's what?"

"What's attention-whatsit?"

McHallan stared at him blankly, and took off his tweed cabbie hat to scratch his head. "Why, it's that disorder that. . .Oh that's neither here nor there, they engineer it out now."

"Oh, I see," Jerome distantly nodded and stretched his legs out. "Can I at least get back in the water? I've been sitting here on the cold floor for all this time."

"No, you can't hear me in there," McHallan shook his head as he dug in his pocket or something.

_Perhaps that's the point,_ Jerome thought to himself.

Suddenly, a piece of paper landed in his lap. "Look that over, Jerome. Those are your competitors."

Jerome smoothed the magazine article out in his lap. In fact, it was their genetic identification; the same one everyone had, with their face, their genetic code of the four letters scrolling at the bottom, all on a blue background. All that mattered of course were the bold white VALID in the foreground and the shape of the double helix on the corner. He always rolled his eyes whenever he saw these. Everyone marveled over his, and it got so tiresome. "I've never seen a helix so perfect," they'd say whenever the barman carded him. _Of course I look over age_, he always thought. _Why am I thinking of beer at a time like this? Perhaps that's a sign that I should pop on over_. . .

"First is James St. Clair, you know him. Wanker," McHallan paced the pool deck.

Of course he did. James St. Clair was a right bastard, in his opinion. He was an Irishman who always got second place behind him, who even went so far as to accuse him of blood doping _and_ steroid use. During a now famous (or infamous, however one looked at it) press conference, when St. Clair made his false charges in front of the media, Morrow leaned back in his chair and laughed, "Blood doping? What do you call genetic engineering?"

"Second, Nikita Trovsky."

Jerome's eyes widened when he saw his picture. He must have been over 250 pounds, maybe in his late fifties, with white hair and fat rolls in his neck. "Are you kidding me? Why is he here?"

"He's a famous ice diver. Never mind him, it's the girl you should be worried about," he said before he took a swig of coffee from a thermos.

He was so surprised he snorted with laughter and crinkled his nose. It was an INVALID, a blonde-haired woman named Portia Robinson. "Are you kidding me!" he snickered, letting an inkling of that genoism show through. "An INVALID in the English Channel Cup? Won't their hearts give out!" He laughed out loud, "What a joke."

McHallan narrowed his eyes at him, saying nothing.

Jerome blinked innocently, "You're not serious, right?"

"No, actually," his coach replied, baiting him and waiting for a response.

"I didn't think so," he laughed and put the paper down. "I figured. . ."

"Morrow, you genoist!" McHallan groaned. "Yes, she's not engineered, but she's just as good! If not better! In the old days, back before I was. . ."

_Shit, here he goes again, with the "In The Old Days" speech_, Jerome thought to himself.

"Whatever you do, don't underestimate this American INVALID, all right! She's wicked good!"

He nodded and gave the programmed response, "Yes, sorry coach."

"Right, good on you," he mumbled. "So, think about what I've said, if that sponge you call a brain has soaked up anything, and I'll see you at six o' clock AM SHARP. And no, I don't mean six-thirty, or six-fortyfive, and I do not care if the coffee shop doesn't open until then! Daily scones are not acceptable, even for you. If you have turned yourself into a caffeine junkie, learn to make it at home."

_Blahblahblah, damn! He loves hearing the sound of his own Scottish brogue!_ Jerome laughed to himself.

"Remember that, eh?" he pointed to him and gathered his papers, putting on his hat.

"Finally," Jerome sighed and took off, "I'm free!" Springing to his feet, sprinting across the deck, he raced to the locker room, dripping water on the tile floor.

"Dammit, Jerome! You are going to fall and break your neck if you keep running like that! It's TILE! Be careful!"

_You're not my father, _Jerome thought to himself as he turned the corner to the showers, and of course, slipped, hitting the door with his head.

Hearing the thud, McHallan laughed, "See? What did I tell ye'? I'm WISE, Morrow. You listen to your coach. . ."

Jerome made a face behind his back and swaggered in the door, rubbing his forehead.


	2. chapter 2 Aldiss Street

Chapter Two:  
Hearst Street and the Aldiss Arms  
  
It was already past five o'clock, and half of his day was wasted away. Spent by training, as all of his days went. "I need to get a life," he said to himself. Jerome threw his towel to the wooden bench below his open locker. He crumpled up the paper and threw it in, but took a bottle of shampoo from it. Shutting the aluminum door with a clattering slam, he then made his way to the shower. He used the locker room shower more than the one at his own flat. But to him, they were much better. The pool was like his home.  
He looked around to make sure that nobody else was around before he took off his swimsuit, because he was very bashful and shy. But nobody was, so he stepped into the shower and took off his freezing cold, chlorine- seeped swimming shorts and pulled the curtain around. There was no way in hell that he would shower in the open, he needed something surrounding him. He turned the knob to full blast and the warmest temperature it would go. The steaming hot water fell on him like a torrential downpour of rain. The chilly pool water was washed away, like a shiver from his scalp to his stomach and then down to his toes until all the cold water was replaced with warmth.  
Five minutes later, (mostly all spent up by thinking to himself,) he turned off the shower and was surprised to find that the entire locker room was filled with steam that reminded him of thick, pea-souper smog. He wrapped a towel around himself and opened his locker. A new pair of boxers, brown trousers, a white shirt and a dark blue silk tie were all packed tightly in it. He dressed quickly as if he had somewhere to go. (In actuality, the only place he had to go was home to do nothing but lie around and watch the television and eat.) He put on his shiny black shoes, slammed the locker door, and rushed outside. While walking onto the sidewalk outside, he ran a comb through his messy hair and combed the bit above his forehead skyward. Coach McHallan caught up with him.  
"Oh Jerome, you have a party to go to tonight," he said while lighting a cigarette. (Jerome didn't think it was fair at all how his coach got to smoke but he didn't. Not that he really wanted to smoke, it was just the restriction that perturbed him.)  
He rolled his bright blue eyes and sighed deeply, "What's it for THIS time?"  
"Don't give me that, Morrow! It's a special party for all the English Channel Racers. All your competitors are going to be there. So show up and look sharp! The cab will be there around six to pick you up," and grumbling, he left.  
Great, he thought. Another party. A drab, boring party. Oh well, it could be worse. He started walking down Hearst Street. He would go to the party. Not willingly, not that he wanted to go. But he had to make an appearance.  
Jerome savored the weather outside, inhaling the damp air. It had stopped raining, and now it was misting. The tiny droplets of water fell on his face with a pleasant, ticklish sensation. On the road, the many electric cars zoomed by, leaving the scent of ozone in the air and a high- pitched whizzing noise in his ears. It was very annoying to him.  
Hearst Street was always busy, mostly visited by tourists for the little shops. There was a small bakery, an Indian restaurant, a traditional English pub called The Twin Hippogriff Cellar, and a television repair shop. When he reached the window of the TV shop, he peeked in to see what was going on in the world; nothing too exciting except the invention of a new robot that helped old people. No big deal, so he walked on. He wandered down the street until he was stopped by the scent of only one thing. . .Maple Oat Nut Scones.  
Maple Oat Nut Scone or not. . . He tried to reason with himself. He already had two this morning, and had a craving for two more. They were sold at the huge American coffee shop, and they were Jerome's favorite food.  
I can do without them, I will get one tomorrow. Or two or three, he told himself and walked on.  
After Hearst Street was Aldiss Avenue, and it took him another ten or so minutes to reach his flat. Jerome lived in The Aldiss Arms, a very swank and ritzy apartment building. There were two doormen that always opened the door for everyone. When he came to the door, the men opened it as if he was entering Buckingham Palace and said "Good evening Mr. Morrow" in unison. He nodded and went inside. The lobby was full of old women in expensive fur coats and hats, along with men in tuxedos.  
How do they get away with wearing full tuxedos every day? he asked himself. He didn't ever really fit in with the other residents of the Aldiss Arms, but he could care less. He walked in the elevator and pushed the Third Floor button. The Aldiss Arms, a large and pale brick building, had six floors in all. After the elevator stopped and opened, he turned the corner until he reached Room 218. Instead of a key, all the doors were unlocked by each owner's genetic identity. On the wall by the door handle there was a little screen and a metal touchpad. Jerome put his middle finger on it, and it took a sample of his blood. On the screen, it showed his genetic ID; his face, the large white VALID, and the door opened.  
"Home white home," he said to himself jokingly.  
The apartment was very plain and white. White walls and ceilings. White kitchen counters, white window panes, white carpet and tile floors, white table and chairs, white cupboards. At first he found it all very bleak, but then found that the white comforted him. The only things that weren't white were the black leather sofa arranged by a bookcase and a television. He walked to the couch and flopped back on it, looking at the ceiling and not thinking about anything in particular. Suddenly he heard his telephone ringing. Leaping up, he ran and answered it. "Hello?"  
A woman's voice was heard. "Jerome Eugene Morrow, finally I got you on the telephone!"  
Oh shit, he thought. It was his mother. Mrs. Martha Eliza Morrow lived in Staffordshire with his father in a huge boring mansion. He sighed and responded, "Oh hello mother."  
"Do you know what today is?" she excitedly asked.  
"Why yes I do, mother. It is April fourth, 2070," he sarcastically said. "And it is six o' clock. Not to mention that the English Channel Cup is exactly two months away." Uh-oh, six o' clock, that cab is here any minute!  
"Jerome, do not be so sarcastic. . ." It sounded more like "sah-kaa- stick" coming from her. "It is the day that I went to the geneticists to first make you! I spent a FORTUNE on you, you do realize that I hope?"  
"Every single damn day, Mum."  
"Evelyn says hello, she just left for France." (Evelyn was his younger sister, by three years to be exact.)  
"Oh good. Now mother, I've got to go. I need to get to a party. It's very important."  
She tittered, "Ha! The last time you said that you went to a party and a bunch of trollops were there!"  
He rolled his eyes and winced at the horror of that unfortunate party years back. "Mother, that was in college. It was a prank. No! This is a party for all of the English Channel Cup competitors."  
"What? There's more than four now?" she asked in a very Monty Python- ish way.  
He was growing more and more impatient. "NO!"  
"Well then where is it?"  
"I actually do not know."  
"Now why in heaven's name do you not know where a party that you are invited to is?!" she squeakily replied.  
"It was very last minute, Mum. Coach informed me right after practice, and I just stepped in the door. NOW CALL ME BACK LATER!!" He hung up without saying goodbye. It was 6:10. He darted to his room and put on a blue jacket. He scrunched his tie up, and ran out the door, not bothering to comb his hair. Almost forgetting to close the door, he rushed back and shut it, automatically locking. He flew down the stairs instead of the elevator which was crammed full of old women with fur coats.  
In the lobby the receptionist said, "Mr. Morrow, a cab is waiting for you." Jerome nodded and ran out the big glass doors. The yellow cab was at the curb, door open for him to hop into. He closed the door and the cab was on its way. Jerome had no idea where it was headed, but he went along for the ride. 


	3. chapter 3 The Buckingham Palace Ball

Chapter Three: The Buckingham Palace Ball  
  
The taxi zipped down Aldiss Street with that electric zooming sound. Jerome had no idea where it was headed. Maybe it was going to a yacht docked on the Thames River. Suppose it was speeding to the Tower of London. The party could be anywhere in London.  
He sighed and peered out the window. People were ambling down the sidewalk; some tourists, some old ladies out for their walk before supper. He saw a tailors shop with some nice looking suits that he could use for occasions like this. Gazing out the window got boring after ten minutes, so he decided to make conversation with the cabbie. "Good evening," he said to him.  
The old cab driver nodded without saying a word, like a robot in science fiction flicks.  
"Well, do you know where I am going to?" he asked rudely.  
The driver laughed in a husky, harsh voice. "Well Mr. Morrow, you are headed to Buckingham Palace!"  
Jerome was so shocked that he jumped and bumped his head on the ceiling. "WHAT?" he screeched.  
"A ball at the palace."  
This was a very unpleasant surprise for him. He was not at all dressed for a special event like this. He was expecting a cocktail get- together, with butlers passing out fancy salmon hors d'oeuvres on paper doilies. Not an embassy ball-type party! He flattened his hair out of nervousness, but it didn't work. It stuck up everywhere. Damn genetics, he thought to himself. Perfect VALID everything else except my goddamn hair!  
The driver thought that this was hysterical. "Well Mr. Valid didn't know that he was going to the home of the royal family! Imagine!"  
Angrily, Jerome replied, "Excuse me?"  
He shut his mouth and kept on driving. It was five minutes until the cab stopped with a violent jerk. Jerome opened the door and looked around. There were fancy limousines and antique cars everywhere, pulling up and unloading women in sparkly, beautiful long dresses accompanied by men in sharp tuxedoes. The tall gates were wide open and draped in the Union Jack. Wherever you looked, there were the guards with the tall fuzzy black hats. Jerome popped his head back in the car, "What do I owe you?"  
"John McHallan paid already."  
"Oh good, thank you," he said, and the cab took off. He walked to the entrance, where a guard held out a finger pad without saying a word. Finding it very frustrating, needing to give a blood sample to go anywhere, he quietly said, "Ah great, not again."  
"Sorry, standard procedure," the sentry flatly uttered. Jerome gave up and put his middle finger to the silver dot. He felt a sharp sting that felt like a bee-sting, and heard a ding. The guard nodded, and he proceeded to the doors. They were wide open and decorated with the Russian, American, and British flags.  
The very instant that he set one foot in the door, he heard shouts of "Jerome!" all around him. Many people crowded around him, shook his hand, and took pictures. He felt like a big movie star, and it was starting to piss him off. He wasn't used to all the fuss. Inside, he deeply wanted to yell, "For chris'sakes, I'm a goddamn swimmer, not a freakin' Hollywood star!" But he held back. Jerome was being blinded by cameras that were going off all around him. He got very dizzy and fell against a pillar. To make matters worse, women all around him giggled and stared at him, tried to introduce themselves and looked at him VERY closely, whispering to eachother and licking their lips. He absolutely hated this, but just nodded politely as his eyes scoured the halls to find his coach.  
"Thank God! You're here!" he exclaimed out loud at the sight of McHallan. He was dressed up in a white tuxedo with his gray hair in a terrible comb-over.  
McHallan, however, was not looking very happy. He grabbed Jerome's arm and hissed, "Dammit Jerome, what the hell are you wearing?! I told you to look nice!"  
Jerome thought about the conversation. "No you didn't, you just said to show up." He smiled as McHallan glared at him.  
"Use common sense! Use that multi-million pound genetics you have, dammit!" He stormed away, flailing his arms and using Scottish curse words.  
Oh well, he thought, and made his way up the large flight of stairs. He reached the top when he saw a very large old man coming towards him, which alarmed him. He didn't know quite what to do when a huge, smiling old man barreled towards him. So he just stood there frozen to the spot, his fight-or-flight reflexes completely gone. The man, who was short and stout and had white hair and a round nose, yelled, "AH! You must be Jerome Morrow, my competitor!" in a very Russian accent. Still grinning, he gave Jerome a bear hug, almost crushing his ribs, and said, "I am Nikita Trovsky. Such an honor to meet you!"  
Regaining his breath, he replied, "Nice to meet you to, sir."  
"Well I must be going now, must meet an old English friend of mine," and like a very cheerful, fat bear, he stomped away, stopping at every single hors d'oeuvre platter.  
Jerome was in wonder at how a man of his. . .stature could possibly cross the English Channel. But his thinking was broken by a slimy Irish voice from behind him. "Jerome Morrow, we meet again."  
Turning around, he saw James St. Clair, with his greasy red hair and overconfident grin. He was wearing a blue suit and gleaming black shoes. Not being surprised at all to meet him, knowing the jerk from previous Olympics, he sarcastically smiled and said, "Oh hello," and put out his hand to shake.  
James immediately glowered at him and shrank away from Jerome's friendliness. "Don't you dare give me that, you know as well as I that we hate eachother."  
"What do you mean?" he warmly laughed, enjoying acting so nicely. "Why James, I'm appalled. . ." he said in a very British way, but couldn't help snickering.  
"Look Million Morrow, I have just one thing to say. I'm gonna' beat you this time. That Olympic gold medal was just good luck last year. This time, it's gonna' be you with the bronze and ME with the gold."  
To backlash even more, Jerome flashed his dazzling smile and said, "Not in a million years. My own mum could swim faster than you. But good luck, I suggest you practice your ass off."  
James was not at all amused. He just huffed and clamored to the dance floor.  
God, I love competition, Jerome said to himself. He walked in a straight line to the balcony overlooking the front lawn. It was there that he stopped dead in his tracks and saw her.  
A young woman was leaning forward on the white railing, looking out to the street. Jerome could only see her backside. She had blonde hair, shoulder-length and flipped outward. The dress was sleeveless, the hem touching the ground. It reminded him of dresses from the 1930's. Finally, it was the young woman who turned around. The dress was cream colored silk, with long pieces of black jeweled fabric around the bottom half, around the waist, and down the front, creating a lot V-neck. On her feet were tall black, Mary-Jane style heels.  
He got very nervous, and looked at the ground. (Despite how handsome everyone said he was, he was NEVER good around girls. You would think that he had a natural gift and was perfectly comfortable talking to them, but he never even had a girlfriend because of his awful shyness. It always turned women off, they thought it was narcissism. Jerome finally recognized her as Portia Robinson, the INVALID. Her appearance was that of a 1940's movie star; the hourglass figure, the hair-style. Her blue eyes were lightly lined with brown eyeliner, and she wore matte red lipstick. Looking at him, her eyes widened and she slightly nodded her head. In a slurred California accent, and a bit of nervous stuttering, she said, "Oh, are you Mil-Million Dollar Mor-Morrow?"  
He laughed and looked back at the ground, "Yes, I hate that nickname."  
Laughing, she held out her hand, gloved in black silk. "Hello, I'm Portia Robinson, from California."  
He finally got the courage and walked up to her and shook her hand. "My name is. . ."  
She interrupted him, "Jerome Eugene Morrow? I've heard so much about you. I've always wanted to meet you, I've heard so much about you. You're a fabulous swimmer. I've watched a lot of your competitions. They-they're very g-good."  
He was quite flattered by this, and turned crimson, not being used to any compliments from a woman.  
"Why, your ears turned red! You're embarrassed! I'm sorry," she laughed. "You're plagued with shyness? Me too, I'm so shy."  
"Really? It doesn't seem like it," he quietly said.  
"Pardon me? I can hardly hear you, your voice is deep," she strained to hear him.  
"Oh nothing, have you got any chewing gum by any chance?" he asked to cover it up.  
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Is spearmint ok?" she reached into her purse and got a packet of chewing gum.  
"That's my favorite," he said.  
"Mine too, what a coincidence," she blushed and handed him a piece. He was so nervous that he forgot to say thank you. "So have you read any books lately?" Portia asked.  
"I just finished Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, actually. I know, it's old, but I really liked it," he scratched his arm.  
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped nearly to the floor. "No, really! That's my favorite book! Along with Catch-22."  
Jerome was floored. "You're lying!"  
"No I'm not! I've loved that book since I was a kid!"  
Jerome grinned and laughed, "This is so bizarre, because that's my all time favorite novel!"  
Portia looked at his smile and all that came out was a gasp of bewilderment and happiness. "Huh."  
"Pardon?" he politely asked.  
"Nothin', I'm just impressed," she folded her arms across her chest and pulled her gloves up.  
"What do you say we ditch this and get something to eat, Miss Robinson?" he asked. Jerome was taken aback and somewhat shocked by his sudden lack of the usual shyness on his part.  
"Of course, we'll need to sneak out though, my coach will murder me if she sees me leaving," she laughed.  
"Oh mine too, he's practically a Nazi," he nodded. This would be a golden opportunity for him. Portia walked in front of him and hunched somewhat low to the ground to not be seen.  
Jerome couldn't believe his luck. He was going to dinner with this pretty girl. Not only pretty, she was kind, complimenting, funny, sounded very intelligent. . .Then it hit him for the first time. She was his opponent in the English Channel Cup.  
Oh well, he thought to himself. I won't fall in love or anything crazy like that, it's never happened before. He quietly laughed as they snuck down the stairs. 


	4. chapter 4 Portia Robinson

Chapter Four: Portia Robinson  
  
"Portia, why are you a faith birth?" Jerome asked her as they were finishing off a piece of chocolate cake at a restaurant by Portia's apartment building.  
"Oh I'll talk about it," she said, her mouth full of cake. "Well, my entire family's devout Catholic. Not that they're poor or anything, but they oppose it. They all think it's against God's will. In my opinion, I say that it is. But, in a way it is okay. I mean, it's our evolution into higher beings. In the Bible it says that we're made in God's image. . .Do you understand?"  
"I don't think I do," he said, getting to be very confused.  
"I mean, I think that God wants us to intrude. Change ourselves, make ourselves a bit more like Him. I not only think we are completely messing around with God, I think God wants us to."  
"You're contradicting yourself," he laughed.  
"Huh? What?" She was getting quite confused, along with Jerome.  
"Never mind, I'm quite confused. So what you're saying is that you want your child to be a made-man?" he asked.  
She started to laugh out loud, "Wow, already talking about sex, eh? We just met five hours ago or so!"  
Jerome was embarrassed, "Oh no, I didn't mean that, I just. . ."  
Giggling, she said, "I'm just kidding."  
He was very relieved at this, because he hated to talk about subjects like sex. Maybe it bothered him because everyone was obsessed with it and he had never even had it.  
"Well maybe I'll marry and have a child with a VALID so it's a VALID also," she said while digging around at the piece of cake on the silver plate.  
He looked at her if she meant him, but she wasn't looking at him. "Yeah, that's not a very good question, is it?"  
Portia smiled and nodded, "No question is a bad question. Well, what religion are you?"  
"Plain Christian or whatever it is, I guess," he hoped that was a satisfactory answer.  
She looked impressed, "So, where do you live?"  
"Aldiss Arms," he flatly said.  
"The Aldiss? You live there?"  
"Uh-huh," he took a big bite of cake.  
"Wow."  
"What university did you go to?" he asked.  
"UCLA. Majored in creative writing."  
"Are you a writer?"  
"Well, I've had chronic writer's block for years. I have so many ideas and can't write them down. It's an awful feeling," Portia sighed.  
"Why do you think you have writer's block?" he asked.  
"I have no idea. Lack of inspiration, boredom, stress? I do not know. That ever happened to you?"  
He ran his fingers through his hair. "I can't say I have. I've never written anything much, except for school."  
"Did you do well in school?"  
"I suppose so," he replied.  
"Well of course you did, what a stupid question," she laughed nervously. "Is your hair always messy, or did you do it that way?"  
"Oh no, I can't do my hair at all. It's ridiculous. I hate it. I should just shave it off and stop worrying about it, shouldn't I?" he asked.  
"God no! It's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen!" her eyes widened.  
"You mean it?"  
"Yeah, I mean, all these guys these days slick back their hair and it looks gross, all greasy and slick. But yours is all spiky and wild and perfect. I think it's quite cool," she smiled.  
"Everyone always bugs me about it, that I should get it under control," he frowned.  
"Oh don't let anyone else tell you what to do," she put the fork down. "My gosh, I ate too much cake. Did you get enough? I practically ate the whole slice."  
"I got plenty," he smiled.  
"You know, you've got just about the prettiest eyes I've ever seen. Are they green, or blue? Because they keep changing," Portia said.  
"I know, in some pictures they look green, but they're blue."  
"They look deep blue to me. They're gorgeous."  
"Thank you. You've got very nice eyes also," he said.  
"Oh thank you," she blushed.  
"You blushed!" he flirtatiously said.  
"Yeah, I know," she rested her chin in her hand, and looked right at him with a content look on her face.  
"What?" he leaned in closer to her.  
"I like you," she whispered.  
"How so?" he whispered back.  
"I think you're interesting and smart and funny and cute, and I like being around you," Portia smiled.  
"Same here."  
"Same what?"  
"I think the same of you, Portia," he leaned in even closer to her.  
"Really?"  
"Why, of course. I would have said it the same way that you did."  
"Oh, that's good."  
He sat up straight and grinned. "Yes it is."  
Portia asked, "What time is it?"  
He looked at his watch and said, "Eleven thirty PM."  
She stood up, "Damn, I need to go! YOU need to go!"  
Jerome left money on the table and followed her out of the restaurant. She spun around, "Oh, you're gonna' walk me to my flat! You're such a gentleman."  
They walked out to the sidewalk, passed two buildings, and they were soon at her apartment building. He opened the door for her, and she smiled kindly at him. They both walked to the elevator, she pushed the five button, and the door closed. They were all alone.  
"So what are you doing tomorrow night?" he asked.  
"Nothing. Do you want to see a movie?"  
"That's exactly what I was going to ask," he laughed.  
"Ah, to imagine that I think like a VALID," she smiled.  
Looking nervously at his feet, he said, "Well if it is any compliment, I was never able to distinguish VALID from INVALID. They all look the same to me."  
"Nah, all those VALID women are pretty and skinny and in perfect shape."  
"Oh you're wrong, they have no shape. They are walking stick insects."  
Portia blushed and grinned at him approvingly. "I have really bad allergies. That's what's the main problem with me. I used to have really bad asthma when I was a kid. Couldn't run at all. I was this sick, shrimpy girl, pale and unhealthy. I couldn't even play sports like soccer or softball with the other girls. It went away when I was eleven or twelve. But I never played a sport in high school. I wasn't active enough as a child and never got good enough at any sport. And, my metabolism is all out of whack."  
"Well, my nose is pointy."  
She looked at him from the side, admiring his profile. "Oh no, you have a marvelous perfect nose. I wish I had one like yours. But I have the genetic defect huge Italian nose."  
"But I have hairy arms," he said.  
She picked up one of his arms and rolled up the sleeve. "No big flaw. Don't all men?"  
"I have a hairy chest."  
"Wow. There is something wrong with you," she laughed. The door opened and she walked out, followed by him. Her flat was right by the elevator, and she unlocked the door the old-fashioned way. (There were no blood sampling locks on the door, that could only meant it was a mainly INVALID building.)  
"Well, thank you for dinner. I had a marvelous time with you," she said.  
"I had a good time too." He tried to find something good to say, because he was so nervous. "I. . .You. . .You're very fun and interesting."  
"Oh you too," she said. There was an uncomfortable pause. He had no idea whether to give her a good night kiss or not.  
Jerome was abruptly interrupted by Portia, who gave him a quick small kiss on the lips. Not a big sloppy one, just a peck. Then she quietly said, "See ya' tomorrow at 7:30?"  
He was in a daze, so happy he wanted to scream out loud. His lips were still puckered as he nodded stupidly. "Uh-huh. . ."  
She grinned and walked into the door. "Good night, Morrow." It clicked shut, and he stood there for a moment. Then he turned away and left, still in sheer and utter bliss. It was the happiest he had been in a very long time. 


	5. chapter 5 Foggy Day

Chapter Five: A Rainy Springtime  
  
"Ok look Morrow. Here's a map of the length of the Channel and the currents at the times of the day. Morrow?"  
Jerome couldn't even focus. All he could think of was her; Portia Robinson, and the dinner they had last night after ditching the Buckingham Palace Ball. He was shivering while sitting on the diving board, one leg dangling over the side. He wistfully moved his toe around and around in the water. Why. . .I think I am in love! he thought to himself.  
"MORROW!!" McHallan screamed.  
"What? Huh?" He was so shocked and startled that he stood up on the diving board, surprisingly not falling in the water.  
"What is your bloody problem? Now concentrate. Look here, the current goes. . ." He stopped when Portia Robinson walked in and sat down on the bleachers by the large window that Jerome frequently looked out of.  
Jerome's heart skipped a beat and he smiled and discreetly waved.  
McHallan hissed, "Morrow, that's Portia Robinson, the American INVALID."  
"I know," he was still grinning at her with his perfect smile and his eyes sparkling like a sapphire.  
Coach McHallan was surprised and somewhat angry. "You've met her?"  
"Uh-huh," he nodded happily.  
He stood up and gathered his things. "Okay then, you can go. Obviously you're not paying any attention and you don't care." McHallan stormed out of the building shaking his head.  
Jerome waited for him to leave and then cautiously tiptoed off of the diving board. "I thought I was supposed to pick you up at 7:30," he jokingly exclaimed and swaggered over to her, who was now standing on the bleachers.  
"I got impatient, and I don't have practice today. I also wanted to apologize for the kiss," she quietly said while looking at the ground.  
"What do you mean?" he ruffled and dried his hair with his towel.  
"It was too soon, I know," she stepped down to him. Portia was wearing a white button-up shirt and a baggy black tie, a brown skirt, and the same black heels. Her hair was tucked under a black, cloche hat.  
"I didn't mind."  
"I acted too fast. I'm sorry. I'm not one of those slutty girls, I just don't know proper date etiquette. I'm too rash. I don't think before I act. . ."  
He stopped her. "It is fine, I am exactly the same way. Impulsive? Doesn't know what the hell to do on a date? I understand."  
"You do?" she asked and moved closer towards him.  
"Of course I do." He looked out the window. "It looks like the rain is clearing up, do you want to go for a walk in Hyde Park?"  
"That would be wonderful," she smiled. "I haven't done that yet."  
"You will love it. Just let me get dressed, all right?"  
She slowly nodded, "All right."  
He grinned and ran to the locker rooms to get dressed as soon as possible, nearly falling on the slippery tile floor.  
She let out a scream as he nearly fell down. "Oh Jerome watch out!" she yelped, suddenly feeling protective.  
He regained his balance and walked with an overdone cocksure swagger, looking back at her and shrugging.  
She laughed and watched him as he disappeared into the locker room. "I like him," she said out loud. "I like him a lot."  
  
One Month Later  
  
One whole month and one whole week had passed. It was early morning, about six AM, in Jerome's flat. He could feel it even inside his room that it was one very cold morning in London. Portia was just waking up. They had gone to the wax museum, gotten in trouble, and went to the theatre the day before. That night, they decided to go back to Jerome's flat.  
The windows were dripping with rain outside. He yawned and looked over at Portia, who was rubbing her eyes. "Good morning," he quietly said.  
She glanced at him, smiled tiredly, and said, "Hey."  
"Do you feel all right?" he asked as he brushed a few strands of hair from her face.  
"Uh-huh, why wouldn't I be?"  
He thought for a moment and replied, "I dunno, morning sickness, you know. . ."  
She shook her head. "No, I do not feel the symptoms of morning sickness," she laughed sarcastically and rested her head on his arm, looking up at him.  
When he saw her admiring face, he asked, "What is it?"  
"You're such a silly guy."  
"Huh?" he smiled.  
"Your hair is so spiky and funny. People pay tons of money to buy gel for hair like that, you know. I've never seen hair like that on a VALID before." She laughed and patted him on the head, trying to flatten it down. "I guess they can't specify what type of hair you'll have when they pick the color, can they? I love it."  
He nodded and shrugged, "You hungry?"  
"Uh-huh."  
"Would you care for some tea or coffee?"  
"That sounds good." She rolled over and sat up, her back facing him.  
He stood up and said while putting on his boxers and an undershirt, "We'll have some breakfast. You can borrow some of my pajamas."  
She stood up and caught a black T-shirt and white pajama pants, far too big for her. Nevertheless, she slipped them on. They slowly walked to the kitchen, both yawning and stretching their arms to the ceiling. He set a kettle on the stove for tea, and got a bottle of milk from the refrigerator. He sat at the table across from Portia and put down bowls, spoons, and a box of Cheerios.  
Portia laughed, "I take it you can't cook."  
"I can't even boil water," he made a silly grin and poured cereal and milk into their bowls.  
She kept tugging at the pants to keep them up. "You know, Jerome, the English Channel Cup is less than a month away."  
"Oh I know. Four weeks or so, isn't it?"  
"Yeah, that would be a month I think," she sarcastically said. "You're so silly. You worried?"  
"No," he instantly said, his mouth full of cereal.  
"Why?"  
"I don't know, I just don't feel worried," he laughed. "I would say I'm pretty prepared."  
"At least you are," she sighed.  
"Why?"  
"I'm worried sick."  
"Don't be, I believe in you," he said. Suddenly, the phone rang. He rushed to get it as he muttered a quick 'excuse me.' "Hello."  
Jerome Eugene Morrow! Where in heaven's name were you last night?!"  
Oh gosh, here we go, he thought. "Nowhere mother, I was right here at home," he sighed and rolled his eyes out of frustration.  
"I called you nearly five times around eleven or so and you did not pick up," she nagged.  
He blushed, "I must have been asleep."  
"No. Tell me the truth," she commanded.  
He gave up. "Fine. You want to know the truth? I'll tell you, mother. I met a girl."  
Her voice perked up out of happiness. "A girl? How old?!"  
"My age. Her name is Portia."  
Jerome heard a sudden drop in his mother's voice, "Is that the INVALID girl you're competing against? Oh I should have known, Penny Merriweather told me about that, a rumor she heard. I thought it was just a misconception, but is it true? Are you with an INVALID?!"  
"Yes mother, I am with an INVALID," he proudly said.  
She was infuriated, "Why are you with an INVALID, for God's sake?!"  
"Because I love her. I am twenty-two years old, and I am entitled to spend my life the way I want to, Goddammit."  
"Don't you dare bring her here to meet us, your. . ."  
Jerome slammed the phone down, shaking with anger.  
"What's wrong, honey?" Portia asked.  
"Oh nothing, that was my mother."  
"You're trembling. Are you angry?" she seemed concerned and stood up, walking to him and kissed the top of his head.  
"Yes, just a bit. It's nothing to worry about, just my mother telling me to live my life," he exhaled deeply.  
Portia sighed and rubbed the back of his neck caringly. "I understand, it must be hard to be involved with me."  
"What do you mean?" he looked up at her inquisitively.  
"I mean, I'm just an INVALID, and you're Million Dollar Morrow, the perfect human. I must ruin your rep awfully."  
"Oh God no, I don't listen to them, because they don't know how you really are. They don't know that you are the perfect person."  
She laughed and walked to the doorway. "Ha, a perfect person. Yeah right."  
He approached her and put his arm around her, "You are. You are intelligent, funny, smart, beautiful. . ."  
"You really think so?" she stopped frowning.  
"Why do you doubt yourself?" he asked.  
She put her head on his shoulder and hugged him tightly, "It's easy to doubt myself."  
"Don't doubt yourself," he embraced and kissed her on the cheek. "I love you."  
"I love you too," she whispered back, and exhaled out of comfort, feeling safe and content in his arms.  
  
Later, Jerome was swimming laps in the pool again and being timed by McHallan, who he could hear as the water rushed past his ears. "FASTER, you lazy laggard! SWIM!"  
He reached the fifty lap point and came up for air, "Good?"  
"That was shit, Jerome. Awful! Five minutes behind your usual time. . .No, make that close to ten minutes behind."  
"Ah well," he shrugged while treading water.  
"Get out of the pool," he commanded.  
Jerome climbed out over the edge. McHallan threw his towel at him and led him to the bleachers, where they both sat.  
"Morrow, you've been acting very different over the past few weeks. Now tell me what's different with you."  
He said flatly, "Nothing. Nothing at all."  
"Nothing, eh? Tell me, have you met a girl?" eh inquisitively asked.  
"Yes."  
"Perhaps that Portia Robinson girl?"  
Jerome did not want to say anything to McHallan about that, knowing what was coming. "What do you mean?"  
"I know you very well, Jerome. You're into that American INVALID."  
He laughed to hide the fact, "What makes you think that?"  
"Ha! What do you think I am, a bloody idiot?! After grinning and waving and having a little chat with her when she came back here a few weeks ago?" he angrily asked.  
Unable to hold his anger in, Jerome stood up, threw the towel on the ground and yelled, "So what if she is an INVALID?"  
He shook his head, "Do you love her?"  
"Yes! As a matter of fact, I do love her. I love her very much."  
McHallan's voice got quiet, "Did you sleep with her?"  
Jerome laughed again as to cover up the fact, "Ha! Me, yeah right."  
He bellowed, "DID YOU?!"  
He hesitated but then said, "Yes. I did. Once," not feeling the need to hide the fact from anyone.  
Coach shook his head again and laughed pitifully, "She's not good enough for you."  
"What did you say?" he turned around, his eyes flashing in a confronting manner.  
"She is not good enough for you," he repeated slowly.  
Enraged, Jerome said, "How dare you say that! Who the hell do you think you are to tell me that the one woman I love is not good enough for me? She is positively wonderful! The greatest person I have ever met. She is talented, has a great personality, is very smart, unique, pretty, and not shallow like the rest of the VALID women out there!"  
"How do you know? How do you know she's just with you just because you're Million Dollar Morrow?" he laughed.  
"Because she isn't like that! She wouldn't! She actually cares about me for me, and that's something even my own mother never did!"  
McHallan cynically and hatefully said, "You are Jerome Eugene Morrow. Million Dollar Morrow, however the hell you want to say it. You were engineered to be the perfect human specimen. You could get any woman you want, but you pick a measly INVALID, as common and common-looking as they come? Think, Jerome! Make good choices! You're practically gonna' live forever! You have one of the highest IQs in the entire. . ."  
"I don't give a shit, McHallan! I would give up every last drop of my VALID-ness just to be near her! I do not care if she is an INVALID. All right? Do you understand? There is nothing in heaven or on earth that can change that!"  
McHallan sighed and stood up, getting all his things.  
"Where are you going?" Jerome asked.  
No answer, he just walked to the diving board and picked up his hat.  
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Jerome screamed.  
"I'm letting you cool down for a few days. Use that million dollar brain you supposedly have." He walked out the door, shaking his head in pity for him.  
Still in extreme anger, Jerome went to the locker room. Slamming the door violently after him, he went straight to the shower, took off his swim shorts, and turned the water on to full blast and the hottest temperature it would go. It came on heavily, and soon, he was not as angry. It was very comforting to him, and made him feel much better. He thought to himself while standing under the water, No. If anything, I'm not good enough for Portia. I love her more than anything. I've never been in love before, but now I feel like an entirely new person.  
He turned the water off and stepped out, feeling refreshed and happy. Dripping water all over the white tile floor, he walked to his locker to get dressed. 


	6. chapter 6 Mismatched

Chapter 6

* * *

After having a horrible day with McHallan insulting him, he was finally looking forward to something. Jerome walked up to Portia's door. It was about 9 o'clock at night, and he was meeting her for dinner at her flat. Knocking on the door, it opened, to show Portia in a classy black dress, quite plain and surprisingly conservative, with short sleeves, and the hem to her upper ankles, as were most of her dresses. She was quite beautiful. He said, "Good evening. You look gorgeous."

She grinned and blushed, and said, "Come on in." Her flat was all red, the exact opposite of his. The kitchen tiling was black and white checkered, and the carpet was plain white. To the left was a sofa and a television, and to the right was the small kitchen. She took his coat, and they gave each-other a quick kiss. "Dinner's at the table," she said, and showed him to a small vintage table, with 2 candles and 2 plates of steaming pasta. There was champagne too. 

Jerome laughed, and sat down. She followed him, and started to eat. He took a bite, and said, "Portia, this is delicious."

"My mum's recipe," she replied, and they continued with their dinner, talking about all kinds of things; how their day went, their families, and how much of a jerk James St. Clair was. Portia said he was making passes on her at the ball at the palace, and how she smacked him across the face, which made both of them erupt into laughter. 

About an hour later, they had finished the meal, and Portia cleaned up the table. Jerome sat on the couch, and then she sat with him. She took out some Altoids from a drawer in her coffee table and took one, because there was garlic in the sauce, offering one to him too. Then, she took out a picture from the coffee table, looking at it, smiling. 

It was a photo of both of them in the park. "Look, Jerome," she handed it to him.

He took it from her, and viewed it over. It was a picture they had an ice cream seller take, a few days after they had met. Portia was wearing a green dress, and Jerome was in his usual wrinkly trousers and a white shirt with a loose tie. In the background was a pond with ducks, and green grass, the park on the sunny day. They were hugging eachother and grinning happily at the future. He smiled at her, saying, "You got the pictures developed?"

"Yeah. Remember when we went to Madame Tussauds Wax Museum, and took the pictures with all the statues, and the one where I was pretending to kiss the Charles Lindbergh, and the security people came and stopped me? Well, they got in the picture," she laughed with him. "It's funny, you see me looking all confused and embarrassed, and then the security man scolding me!" Portia did an impression of the gruff security guards, in her fake English accent, "Excuse me, kissing the exhibits is not allowed!!"

They laughed and laughed, then Jerome said, "We need to go to Hyde Park again soon."

"Well, how about tomorrow?"

He thought, "OK. We'll ditch practice. Sound good?"

"Sounds great," she paused to laugh, "God, that was the most fun I've ever had," and looked at him, into his eyes. "Do you love me?"

"Why, what do you mean?" he chuckled.. 

"Well, I mean, how long have we known eachother?" she asked.

"About a month."

"You don't think it's too fast. I mean, it's only one month," she slumped back on the couch and sighed. 

"Oh, is this the 'love or lust' discussion?" he asked.

"Yeah. I guess it is," she embarrassedly said. 

"Well, of course I love you. Do you believe me?"

Portia smiled and said, "Yeah, that's what I think too. You know, we should make a tally of how many times that's said between us." She paused. "Have you ever been in love before, Jerome?"

He laughed out loud, and replied, "No. Never. Why, have you?"

She shook her head, "Nope."

Jerome was quiet for a moment, and then asked, "Well, have you. . .uh. . .ever had. . ."

"No, no one before you," she instantly said. "Is that what you were going to ask?"

He smiled, "Yes, that's exactly what I was going to ask."

"Well, what about you, huh?"

He shook his head, "No."

"Truly?"

"Truly," he said. 

Portia yawned and rested her head on his shoulder. He put one arm around her. "Hey Jerome?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are you going to be in the English Channel Cup?"

"Because I want to prove myself, I guess."

She sat up straight, "Prove yourself? Haven't you already?! I mean, you're the best swimmer who ever lived!! You've won every challenge you've come up against!!"

"No, I can always get better," he said. 

Portia laughed, "OK."

"Well, why are you entering the race?"

She thought for a moment. "Just for fun."

"For fun?!" he laughed.

"Yeah, I wanted to try it. And you know, it can't be too hard. I mean, I was caught in a rip tide when I was 6. So after that I was a really strong swimmer. My dad would go out on his boat, 20 footer, just a boring little fishing boat, and I would jump off in the middle of the sea and just swim. I'm not an Olympic Athlete or anything, just a girl who swims for fun and the challenge."

"But you have a trainer?"

"Yeah, this is the English Channel. The weather conditions are supposed to be very extreme," she said. 

"Oh, I thought you were an Olympic swimmer or something," he replied. 

"Hell no! Why, are you disappointed?"

"No, of course not!!" he exclaimed. "I would never think of you as anything less if you weren't. . ."

She interrupted him by laughing. "I know, I know. You take things so seriously! It's hilarious!!"

Jerome smiled and sat up straight, slouching, looking at the coffee table. Portia put her arms around him and just hugged him for a long time. He did the same, and kissed her on the cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said, and let go of him. 

He looked at the clock, and the time was 10:30. "Well, I think I should go," he sighed, and stood up. 

"Are you sure? I mean, I made a cake, or you could. . ." she tried to get him to stay, and stood up also.

Jerome grinned and chuckled, "You want me to stay?"

"Yes!!" she blurted out. But she realized her error, and tried to act indifferent. "Well, if you want to, I mean, I'm not forcing you to or anything" she said, acting very calm, cool, and collected, despite that was the very opposite of her, and sat on the kitchen counter. 

He smirked, and walked to her. "OK. I'll stay."

Portia smiled, jumped off the counter, and said, "Oh, OK."

At the same exact time, they quickly threw their arms around each-other and deeply kissed. Well, perhaps more than that, because soon, they were in her room. 

* * *

Portia woke up yawning at 6 o'clock the next morning, very tired from the night before, but feeling strangely happy. Using her toe, she opened the drapes, allowing the morning sun to shine through. She looked over her shoulder, and saw Jerome, still sleeping (and snoring), with one arm limply draped around her waist. He was right up against her, and she could hear him breathing quietly. She smiled and kissed his forehead. Then she carefully picked up his arm, trying not to wake him, and sat up, her legs dangling over the side of the bed, but immediately felt dizzy and queasy. Her head hurt, but she could tough it out. "Probably just sat up too fast," she thought to herself, and stood up, putting on a plain white robe. But when she stood, she felt even more dizzy, so she stumbled over to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, she found a bottle of the pink syrupy medicine, that helped stomachaches, and swallowed just a little bit. Then, she walked back to the bed, and lied back down, looking up at the ceiling. She rolled over, facing Jerome. He was still sleeping soundly, frowning while in his slumber. Drowsily she yawned, and Jerome mumbled something, then put his arm limply around her. Portia quietly laughed, and rolled over, facing towards the window, her back against his warm body. She could feel him inhaling and exhaling, and his heartbeat too; the steady, continuous beating of his heart that was always the same pace, even when they were. . .

She heard a loud yawn, and rolled over again, looking at him. His eyes were drowsy, half open. He rubbed his nose, scratched his head, and stretched his feet and arms toward the end of the bed, trying to wake up. Then, he opened his vivid blue eyes, and looked at her. He whispered quietly, "Good morning," and propped his head up with his elbow, leaning on the pillow. 

She said, "Hi," and lied her head back on the pillow, not 3 inches away from his. "Are you feeling OK?"

"Yes, I feel fine. How about you?"

"Great," she replied. 

Jerome smiled and rubbed his eyes. "It's funny, we always ask eachother that."

"What?"

"If we feel all right. I mean, it's strange. It's like what my mother would do. If I sneezed, she'd say, 'Are you all right? Are you feeling well?' And we ask eachother that." He laughed and smiled softly. "It's funny."

"Well, I guess it's called caring for one-another, Morrow."

"Morrow," he repeated out loud. "You sound like McHallan."

"Uh-oh," she said, and imitated his gruff Scottish accent. "Come on, you slug, go faster!!"

He accidentally snorted in laughter, and rubbed his chin, feeling a little bit of stubble. "Huh, I need to shave."

Portia smiled and felt his jaw-line, which was just a little bit rough. "No, you're fine."

"Good," he said, and yawned.

She snuggled up closer to him. "It's 5 days away."

"What is?"

"The English Channel Cup, of course," she said. "Are you nervous?"

He closed his eyes and smiled, then whispered. "No, not at all."

Portia didn't reply, just looked at him. He had that same proud smile, that razor-sharp jawline, those long eyelashes that surrounded the light blue eyes, and those lips. It was as if she had noticed this for the first time in her life. "You know what?"

He slowly opened his eyes, "What?"

"You are very handsome."

He didn't really know what to say. "Oh." 

"Oh? You are. You know what I love?"

"What?"

"I love how you act so humble but you are actually just bursting with cockiness!"

He sat up and turned sideways, looking right at her. "Really? Is that a fact?" 

"Yeah, and I love the way you talk in your sleep."

"I talk in my sleep?"

She nodded, "Yep, you just mumble about stuff, and I love how when you don't realize it when you just put your arms around me when you're asleep."

He was very surprised at hearing this. "I do?"

"Yep, all the time," and she paused. She sat up, with the robe still on. Jerome pulled the sheets over and wrapped them around him to keep warm. 

"Portia?" he looked at her. 

"Yes?"

"What flaws can you notice of me?"

She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Oh gosh, Jerome, you are perfect! No pun intended, of course."

"No, really, try to find one," he said. 

"I can't. You're fine. You are a great kisser. . ."

"No, no, I don't mean like that, but physical flaws."

She looked at him, "About what you could've done better last night?"

He blushed, "Well, no, but. . ."

"Fine," she said. "You're awfully skinny. You have no bottom, it's flat. That's all I can find. Why?"

"Oh I dunno," he shrugged.

Portia snorted in laughter, "You VALIDs!"

He sat up. "What?"

"You VALID people are always trying to find one tiny flaw in all your perfected selves. God, I could pick out a million faults in myself."

"Yeah, that's because you're an INVALID," Jerome said. 

"Oh," she exclaimed, "Are you a genoist or something? I see how it is!" and laughed. 

"Why of course not," he scoffed. 

Just to bother him, she asked, "And how can I be sure of that?"

He smiled softly, and quietly said, "Because I'm in love with an INVALID," and looked right at her. Portia sighed, and smiled at him. Jerome leaned forward, and kissed her. Afterwards, he whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too, Jerome," she said. Then, she got back to the subject. "But I guess there is a good thing about the whole genetic engineering."

"And what would that be?"

Portia smiled, "You wouldn't be here with me if there was no genetic engineering, you wouldn't even be born."

He nodded, "I never even thought of that," and suddenly she kissed him on the cheek. "No stubble?" 

"No, you're fine." Suddenly, she pressed the side of her head to his chest.

He asked, "What are you doing?" and laughed.

"I've just noticed," she put her head back on his shoulder, "that your heartbeat is the same all the time."

"Really?"

"Yeah, all the time. It's like a metronome! Jerome, Jerome the metronome," she laughed. "I could play the piano with that heartbeat. If I could play the piano." She stopped, and yawned. "Do you know how to play the piano?"

Jerome laughed out loud, and chuckled, "Kind of."

"Me too, kind of," she replied. "I can play that old song 'Someone to Watch Over Me' pretty well. Just the basic melody, no scales or chords. And I can play half of the song from 'Casablanca'."

"So you can play the piano," he said, smiling.

"Yes, in not very literal terms, yes I can."

He laughed, and yawned. "I'm gonna go back to sleep. It's too early. OK?"

"Yeah, me too," she said. She put her head on the pillow, and looked into his eyes, which were getting droopy from drowsiness. 

Jerome kissed her on the forehead and whispered, "I love you, Portia" again, just as he put his arm around her.

She nodded, "I love you, Jerome," her eyes starting to get sleepy also. 

In a few minutes, they were both fast asleep, Jerome's arm limply around her waist.


	7. chapter 7 The Race

Chapter 7

* * *

Soon it was the day of the English Channel Cup, and all of the competitors, not to mention many reporter people, were in a tiny coastal town. It was in south England, at a point where it was exactly 50 miles to France by the way of the English Channel. The air was foggy and salty, invigorating all the racers who were standing on a dock, waiting to jump in the frigid water and swim to France. Reporters wearing thick jackets and coats swarmed around the four athletes, asking them questions. 

One lady from America said, "Mr. St. Clair? Do you think you're going to win?"

Jerome huddled up with Portia under a warm blanket, both shivering. They were standing barefoot on the splintering wooden dock, nearly turning blue. Whenever they exhaled, their breath turned to steam. They were whispering to each other, mostly about, "Hey honey, remember when we went to the museum. . ." and laughing until their bellies hurt over the infamous 'Charles Lindbergh Incident', as Portia and Jerome called it. 

James St. Clair stood proudly, his chest out like a rooster, and in his Irish accent said, "Of course I bloody do! I'm gonna win!"

Jerome laughed out loud, but tried to hide it. Portia giggled and whispered in his ear, "Win the consolation prize?" and kissed him on the cheek. 

One reporter asked Nikita Trovsky, "Mr. Trovsky? How do you think you're going to do?"

He stood with no towel, in a Speedo, (which was a horrid sight) in front of the crowd. "Well, I think I am going to do very well. I've been swimming in ice ponds in my home country since I was ten years old!",(all his W's sounding like V's.)

"And where is your home country?" the reporter asked.

"Russia, raised in the Urals," he proudly said.

"What are those?"

This angered Trovsky, and he yelled, "What kind of reporter are you! You don't know what the Urals are? It's the countryside, by the mountains!". The reporter nodded, and then asked James St. Clair something.

Jerome and Portia laughed to each other, doing impressions of Trovsky's Russian accent and huddling up, sharing the towel, catching the attention of the reporters. One man held a microphone up to them. "Yes, Mr. Morrow and Miss Robinson, you seem to be very close. Are you two going out?"

Portia looked at Jerome, and said into the microphone, "You might want to ask him."

The reporter asked him, and he replied, "Yes, we are."

"For how long?"

He thought to himself about that, and then said, "One month," then looked at Portia, who was smiling.

The reporter lost interest, and then moved back to Nikita Trovsky. Portia smiled at him, and then whispered, "Coach McHallan to your left."

He turned to look, and saw him, walking quickly. "MORROW!"

Jerome casually said, "Yes Coach?"

Portia just smiled, and looked around the crowd.

McHallan tipped his fedora hat to Portia. "Hello, Miss Robinson. You, Jerome, it's almost race time. Do you have your swimsuit on?"

Jerome opened the towel, and showed him his very old fashioned bathing suit, navy blue, with white stripes at the bottom and shorts built in. It looked like what they wore in the 1920's. Portia had one almost exactly like it. "Yes I do."

McHallan was a bit angry at this. "Why don't you have a Speedo on? That's the best swimsuit you can wear!"

Jerome frowned, "No way in heaven or hell am I wearing one ever again, especially today! I'll freeze in one!"

"That Russian guy Trovsky is!"

"Yeah, but he has a thick layer of blubber all over his body to keep him warm!" he said loudly.

McHallan groaned, "Why was I stuck with you to train! Of every other swimmer out there, I had to teach you! You could eat cheese and crackers with your whine!" and he stormed off. 

Portia laughed, "Well, not the most cheerful person, I see."

"You have no idea," he replied, and pulled the blanket tighter around them. It started to mist when a large man wearing a tuxedo stood up on a podium in front of everyone. Jerome asked her, "Who is he?"

"The prime minister, you dimwit!"she laughed and kissed him on the cheek. 

"Oh," he recognized the man, and everyone quieted down. 

The Prime Minister made his speech. "For 4 decades, there hasn't been. ." He droned on and on, Jerome and Portia not paying any attention. 

Ten minutes later, he was done, and another man stepped up. "Would the competitors take their places now?"

Jerome put the blanket down, and turned to face Portia. She grabbed his face in her hands, and gave him one long, hard kiss. "Good luck, Jerome."

He smiled at her, "Good luck. I'll see you later." They hugged each other, then ran to the dock while putting on their goggles, and dove down into the ocean below, the freezing cold water cutting through his body like a sharp knife. (Nikita Trovsky more like cannonball-ed in.) Once in the frigid sea and next to their trainer's little boats, Portia looked over at Jerome and winked. He grinned, and then got ready to swim. 

McHallan, who was in a boat to make sure he didn't drown or something, bent over to him and hissed, "You can beat these people. Try your hardest."

He nodded, and put his feet on part of the dock, which was covered in barnacles and mussels, which cut them up and scraped them. Portia, who was three spaces away from him, was doing the same thing. They shared grins and mouthing out the words, "I love you" to each other. Suddenly, and very unexpectedly, the gunshot was fired, and they were off. He sped through the water, like a bullet, keeping his eyes on the horizon ahead. He knew he would win, and get the gold, and prove his notability, or in other words, victory and fame. 

* * *

It was 7 hours later, in the middle of the channel. Jerome now had a slower pace, because he had gone way too fast at the very beginning of the race. He figured that he was up ahead of everyone else, and Nikita Trovsky was at the back. This was helping him take his mind off of the cold. He thought it might start snowing because it was so freezing. But he still probably had 12 miles to go until he reached France. So he kept on swimming toward the finish line.

When suddenly, he felt a sharp twinge of pain in his side. He couldn't swim anymore, he couldn't even breathe. Jerome started to be pulled underwater by the current. He tried to call out for help, but the salty, cold water filled his mouth. "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die," he thought to himself. All he could think of was Portia, and thought, "I can't die. . ."

Suddenly, everything was dark. . .

* * *

Jerome regained consciousness and abruptly felt someone grab him. He saw McHallan's face, and heard him say, "Morrow, oh dammit, MORROW?!" 

He gasped for air and coughed up water. But then he could talk. "What's wrong? What happened," he said, still heavily breathing.

"You blacked out for about 30 minutes. You're way off course. You need to hurry! Go!"

"I think I broke a rib," he gasped. 

"No," McHallan said, "You're fine. Now hurry up!"

So he started to swim again, still hurting, but determined to win.


	8. chapter 8 One Silver Medal

Chapter 8

* * *

Jerome was delirious and exhausted from swimming for many hours on end. Now it was later in the day, about 6 o'clock in the evening.. He couldn't see straight, everything was spinning, and he stopped to breathe and rest his strained muscles. But McHallan's boat came to him in five minutes. He saw Jerome gasping for air in the middle of the water, and grabbed him by the neck, shaking him violently and uncontrollably. "Come on, Morrow! Snap out of it! You only have one-and-a-half miles to go!" 

He eventually did regain consciousness, and sped off swimming to the end. Soon, he could hear a huge crowd of people, and saw a small town, with different kinds of flags fluttering everywhere. His legs throbbed with pain, and his arms ached from constant swimming. But he didn't give up; Victory was just half a mile away, so despite the torture he was going through, he swam the fastest he had ever swum in his entire life. The saltwater stung his blue eyes, making them bloodshot and swollen. He felt a sharp pain in his right leg, like a knife, but he kept swimming. 

Finally he reached the harbor where the race ended, and swam through the finish line, where thousands of people took pictures and cheered. He stood up with much difficulty, and looked around. There were a bunch of bleachers, huge grandstands, full of cheering people waving flags from the United kingdom, the United States, and Russia. His first impulse was that he won, and he felt very proud. But then Portia ran up to him, embracing him, kissing him. 

Then it hit him like a ton of bricks; He was in second place. He lost first place to Portia. She kissed him, and said, "Jerome! You made it!"

He thought to himself, "No, I didn't make it! I lost! I lost to an INVALID, a Faith Birth." His joy turned to extreme disappointment. He was a failure. He could not believe it at all. "It must be some nightmare, this isn't happening," he thought to himself. But it wasn't a dream. Million Dollar Morrow lost. 

Eventually, Nikita Trovsky came in and was in third place, and James St. Clair came in last. Portia stepped onto the first podium, Mr. Trovsky in third, and Jerome trudged to the second place platform. The King of England came onto the huge stage, like it was a grand ceremony. He placed the golden medal on Portia's neck, the silver on Jerome's and tried to fit the bronze around Trovsky's large head. Then there was the largest cheer he'd ever heard. Scores of people were there, applauding, celebrating. But Jerome blocked it all out, all he could think of was the fact that he lost. He was not happy for Portia one bit. He hated her. 

* * *

Late that night, they left on the Chunnel, the underwater train tunnel that connected France and England through the English Channel. Portia was asleep in the first car, but Jerome sat alone in the last train car. Portia had tried to cheer him up, she didn't know that he was angry at her. Then, Coach McHallan walked in and sat by him. "Morrow, you OK?"

Jerome didn't answer, just kept looking at the back of the seat in front of him, stewing in anger inside. 

"Jerome, I know you're mad that you didn't win first place."

Still no answer from him. 

McHallan sadly shook his head. "It happens to the best of them, Morrow. Just don't do anything crazy, don't hurt yourself over it." Then, he left to the front of the train. 

* * *

They reached London in an hour, it was about 9 o'clock at night. As he walked to the door, Portia ran up to him. "Wait, Jerome!"

He turned around, scowling. "What?"

She hugged him, "See you tomorrow. I love you so much."

He didn't answer.

"Oh, I don't want to leave you," she said, but kissed him again, and got a taxi. 

Jerome didn't get a taxi, he was just going to walk to his flat. He didn't care if he got mugged, he wasn't worth anything. No one would miss him, or so he thought. So he just sauntered down the dark street. 

On his way, he thought to himself, "I'm not worth anything," and other things. Then, he saw the street full of cars, speeding down the road. Without giving it a second thought, he stepped out in the street. 

"I'll just end my life, and it'll all be over and done with. Just one step, it won't hurt," he thought, and a car screeched to stop. Jerome was struck by the car's force, and he heard a crack. Suddenly, a spasm of pain shot through his entire body, and he fell to the ground. He couldn't breathe, and tried to gasp for air. But he couldn't. He couldn't speak or cry out in pain. Then, everything blacked out. 

* * *

Portia ran into the hospital. She was wearing a red trenchcoat and a red and black hat, her signature high heels on. It was 6 o'clock in the morning. She sped to the front desk. The nurse there said, "Can I help you?"

Her eyes welled up with tears, she spoke out with her throat forcing down a steady stream of tears, "Yes, I just got a call saying a Jerome Morrow is in the hospital."

"Oh yes, Jerome Eugene Morrow, floor 2, emergency ward."

She quickly said, "Thank you," and ran to the stairs, flew up them, and reached the front desk of the emergency floor. To the nurse that was there, she said, "I'm looking for a Jerome Morrow. He came in here around 10 o'clock last night?"

"Oh yes, hit by a car?"

She was shocked, "Hit by a car?!"

"Yes, he's in room 12, down that corridor."

"Thank you," she uttered, her heart racing, and walked to the room. She reached it, and went inside. Jerome was there, lying in the bed, looking forward at the wall. He had an IV in his arm, and a steady heart rate. He was fully conscious and alert. She slowly walked in the room, and took a better look at him. 

He was completely different. The color was gone from his face. He looked pale. His eyebrows, usually turned up from smiling, were pointed downward in a hateful glare. His eyes were sunken in, and had dark circles under them. They were no longer that intense, vibrant blue; they were more of a gray color. He didn't even look at her. 

"Jerome, it's Portia." she quietly said.

"I know," he robotically replied.

She moved closer to him. It was as if he had aged 15 years. He didn't look 22 years old. "What happened?"

He didn't answer. 

"Jerome, please," she started to cry, "I'm worried. Were you hit by a car?" (He nodded slowly.) "How? When?"

"Last night," he said quietly.

"How?" she asked. She didn't get a reply, and sat at the edge of the small hospital bed. "Jerome, talk to me."

"I don't want to!" he yelled. 

"Fine," she pulled a handkerchief from her purse. "Jerome, I need to tell you something," then she blew her nose. 

"Tell me then," he grumbled.

"OK. I am pregnant."

"What?" he sat up with great complication. 

"You heard me, I am 'with child', in the family way, gonna have a baby, however you want to say it."

He frowned still, and reclined back. "It's not mine."

She yelled, "Of course it's yours! Who else's would it be?! You're the only one I've been with!" and started to cry softly. 

He said, "How long?"

"About one week," she replied. 

"Oh," he sighed, and scratched his arm. "How?"

She didn't understand, "What do you mean?" 

"It's not my child, so how did you get pregnant?" he said.

"Jerome, it is from you. How did I get pregnant you ask?", she stopped and laughed. "The stork brought it."

He rolled his eyes, "I mean. ."

She angrily said, "How do you think I got pregnant? You think it's some immaculate conception?! We had sex. Must I explain what we did in detail?!"

He shook his head, and looked at her. "No."

Portia tried to change the subject. "Are you OK? Are you going to be out of the hospital soon?"

"Yeah, I think so, but not without a wheelchair for the rest of my life."

She stood upright. "What?"

"I can't walk ever again. A paraplegic, a cripple, however you want to say it," he replied. "Now go away. Leave me alone."

"NO! I won't let you be this way! Come on Jerome, we can get a house in the countryside, maybe out of Lincolnshire or Devonshire! A little house. . ."

"No. I can't."

Sobbing, she said, "Yes you can. We-we'll get married and have a little house, a little family, you can get surgery to repair your legs. It's all right."

It was too much. All this was bothering him. He bellowed, "GO AWAY!"

She gave up. Portia stood up, and wiped her tears away. Trying to be strong, she walked to the door. "Fine. I'll leave. Just remember, I love you. I love you so much, you'll never know. Goodbye, Jerome Morrow," and with that, she left him. 

He had the impulse to go after her. His heart screamed, "Go get her! You love her!" But he couldn't even walk. So he let Portia go, he let her get away. 

It was as if he felt the pit in his heart triple or quadruple in size. 

He pulled the silver medal from the dresser next to the bed. It was beautifully shining, the front emblazoned with two swimmers racing, and hung on a red, white, and blue ribbon. He looked at it, and thought, "I was never meant to be one step down on the podium. I'm second best." 

It was the one object that destroyed his life, that would make him never be able to walk again, and lose the only woman he ever loved, the only woman that ever loved him; his true love, Portia. 

His life before him was now dark and full of sadness, all because of. . . 

One SILVER medal.


End file.
